I Am Me

by Ram Sundaram

  The big toe of fate hammered the life out of me many years ago. I expected to stop existing, to lose the pride and the joy I had taken out of breathing, out of living. But I endured. I endured beyond death. I have endured through a stretch of time I cannot measure, and have been deposited here on the last remaining beach of existence. Everything that sits around me here is all that is left: the land, the animals, I, and this Banyan tree. We make up one large, insignificant ant.

  And the gigantic big toe of this conquering sea bears down upon us.

  Three

  There is a flower on the tree.

  How did it get there? he wonders.

  The world is in its apocalyptic climax; the very essence of life has been strangled and destroyed; and yet, amid this decaying landscape, there lurks this symbol of hope and beginning.

  A flower…

  He wants it. The desire is real, and is more visceral than any feeling he has endured in a long time. It claws at his insides, urging him to commence the chase. The feeling is strangely familiar—it reawakens desires long suppressed within his barren depths.

  He straddles the enormous girth of the tree, and then his limbs work efficiently to move him up to the branch. His hand extends to reach the flower, and his fingers flex to pluck it—but then suddenly, it vanishes! It then reappears on the branch just above him.

  He climbs up further, but again as he reaches for it the flower disappears—it gazes down at him from one branch higher. He frowns and drops down to the earth.

  Ah, who needs you? he mutters angrily.

  He has more pressing concerns.

  The sea is drawing closer.

  Four

  The sea.

  It has swallowed everything greedily: man; woman; child; life; death, and even time. It has left nothing behind but solitude. My solitude. I am alone.

  An old memory suddenly surfaces:

  In a world without mirrors, everyone is beautiful.

  The words resonate within my mind. I cannot remember when I’d heard them spoken, or in what context, but they suddenly seem very meaningful to me. In a world without mirrors, everyone is beautiful. It means that the eyes do not assign value to beauty—they don’t even measure it. The eyes, the senses and even the mind itself, cannot actually measure an object’s worth. It is the ego, which judges. It is the ego, which determines our perception of beauty.

  So in a world without mirrors, in a world where we cannot examine and scrutinize ourselves, beauty would be worthless; or to put it more aptly, beauty would be measureless. How can I judge a man to be beautiful or ugly, when I cannot compare him to myself? Appreciation is inherently envy, and without proper reflection, how can envy exist? I cannot envy another man’s features, his hair, his eyes or his build, when I have no measure of myself. And if I cannot envy him, how can I judge him?

  This world, this “existence” of mine is not only without mirrors, but also without people, without life, and without any opportunity for reflection. I am alone. And so, despite my mortal, inhibited state, my sluggishness, my arrogance, my vanity, and all the rest of my imperfections, I am still the strongest, smartest, most beautiful creature alive.

  I am perfect.

  I laugh aloud at the absurdity of the remark, and the noise echoes across the sheer vacuum that is this world. The sea hears me, but it is far too preoccupied to comment. Otherwise, the laughter goes unchecked, unheeded, and fades into silence.

  Silence…

  Another tree falls in the distance, and then another, and another…

  I stare up at the Banyan rising over my head. Its gnarled branches shiver and tighten around one another, as though bracing themselves for what is to come. The sea will not harm this tree, I decide. No, that is my job. I place my hands on my hips and frown.

  I need an axe…

  Five

  He has no axe.

  So he plants his feet apart and pushes the tree—it stands stubbornly.

  He scratches his head and then climbs up the massive girth of the trunk. The first branch is a long one, slender yet sturdy: ideal. He grips it near its joint and heaves; then he pulls and pushes alternatively—it does not budge. With a grunt of frustration he kicks it; then he stands on it and jumps, but it does not even tremble under his weight. Exhausted, he climbs back down.

  It’s just as well, Ishvar tells himself; I don’t know how to build a raft anyway…

  Six

  My story isn’t about heroism. There are definitely no heroes in this tale, but it is littered with villains. It’s much like how the world once used to be: billions of villains convinced that they were heroes. They learned the truth near the end. And so did I.

  I know so much now, so much more than I ever did. But I still don’t know enough… this Banyan tree knows more than I do. It could tell me a story or two about life. Its very existence is a story worth telling, for it stands defiantly against this all-consuming flood, entirely alone in a world that is falling into ruin. It is joined to the earth that weakens it; it drinks from the sea that erodes it; it breathes into the air that has now abandoned it; and yet, it is alone.

  We are alone. It is nothing more than a fanciful illusion that we are a part of families, of certain circles, communities, countries, cultures, and coincidences. We each exist individually, but—and here’s the rub—we are not individuals. We are alone.

  Our existence is about finding answers, about accumulating knowledge and understanding. For what purpose, one might wonder? But that question in itself requires the aid of an answer.

  “Do you have any answers for me?” I ask the Banyan tree.

  It shivers and ruffles its branches into the wind.

  It can sense the tide growing closer.

  So can I.

  I

  Earth’s Child

  It was by sheer chance that I looked down in my stride and saw his pink skin searing through the pale earth. He was half-buried in the snow, and we were many miles from civilisation, adrift in the vast wilderness. I thought at first that he was some kind of an animal, or the remains of one. But then I saw his tiny hands with its red fingers, reaching out as though for help. How long had he been left here, I wondered? The first layer of snow upon him was fresh from this morning’s, but there was harder, thicker snow closer to his skin. I assumed he’d been left here more than a day ago. But how could someone have committed such a monstrous act?

  Cursing the inexplicable cruelty of life, I fell to my knees—I wanted to see him, to learn his face so that he would be remembered. When my fingers dug into the bitter snow, fighting against its stubborn grip on him, I did not expect to retrieve anything other than a corpse. But as I pulled him free from the earth and lifted his tiny body into my arms, I saw his eyes open, and heard a small cry escape his pink lips. He was alive.

  Startled, I stared into his beautiful face, so fresh with colour despite the bitter cold. His skin was warm to the touch and he looked healthy. But how could this be? Even if he had only been left here a mere hour ago, he shouldn’t have survived, and he had clearly been here more than just an hour. He was quite animated considering his tender age and the ordeal he had just endured, and seemed intent on trying to grab my hair with his little fingers.

  A long, menacing howl rang through the air, cleaving the stiff silence. A sudden chill of fear seized me—it was not my own well-being I feared for, but this child’s. It was a miracle the wolves hadn’t found him already. Setting my contemplation aside, I pulled a blanket out of my pack and wrapped his naked form in it. He did not seem to like the touch of the fabric, for he kicked the folds away; but with persistence, I coaxed him into relenting, and smothered him in my embrace. Cradling him gingerly, I moved quickly across the snow, seeking shelter. We were currently at the mouth of a canyon, exposed to the elements, so I headed for the mountains.

  Tha
nkfully, we reached a cave shortly before sunset. The winds were particularly cruel here at night, so I crawled as far into the cave as I could. Even before I could set him down, he began kicking at the blanket again; surprised, I loosened the folds slightly and he grew calmer at once. He smiled up at me with an enchanting face. I knew at once that just as suddenly as he had appeared in my life, he had also just as suddenly become my life’s main purpose. I would now die for him if I had to, for our fates had become inexplicably linked, like an object and its shadow—no, something even stronger: like life and its eventual death.

  Judging by his size, I would guess that he was barely a week old. And yet he demonstrated movement, dexterity and expression far beyond that age. I wondered what his story was, who his parents were, and how (or why) he had been abandoned. But what perplexed me more than his unusual circumstance was the fact that he had survived. This world was inherently a predator, and the elements were its sadistic hunters, ever alert for innocent prey. How then had such a fragile, helpless creature survived the clasp of certain death? If, as I suspected, he had been abandoned several hours ago, then he should have long ago been claimed by the cold. And even if he had only been abandoned a mere few minutes before my arrival (which was an unlikely scenario, for he was nearly entirely buried in the snow when I found him), then he still should have shown some effects of the ordeal. At the very least, he should have been shivering. But rather he had been warm and healthy when I’d found him, apparently unaffected.

  “You’re a blessed child, dear one,” I told him, and he smiled, as if he’d understood my words. I heard more howls in the distance just then, and shuddered to think what would have happened if the wolves had found him. “I won’t let you fall to harm,” I promised. But the immediate concern, I knew, was neither the cold nor the wolves—it was starvation. His eyes, expressive and quite alert, followed my movements with interest as I then rummaged through my pack for food. I had very few provisions to begin with, and not much that was suitable for a child so young. But by some unexpected good fortune, I found a bit of milk in an old bottle, though I couldn’t remember how it had wound up in my pack. Tearing a piece of cloth from my shirt, I covered the edges of the frigid bottle before I fed him. He drank the milk without fuss, and I was glad, for I knew I could now keep him alive for at least a few more hours.

  “Sleep now, little angel,” I told him, when he had had his fill; he promptly yawned and closed his eyes. “You’re safe,” I whispered, seized by a pang of sudden affection. I held him against me until I was certain he was sound asleep. He gripped the folds of my shirt as he slept, perhaps afraid I would otherwise drift away and abandon him. I promised him that I would never leave him, but he had already drifted off to sleep. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have understood me even if he had been awake.

  I had a troubled night’s sleep, mostly because I was worried for his safety. Wrapped in blankets, he seemed like such a small, delicate figure that I was afraid I would accidentally roll over in my sleep and suffocate him. I was overawed by the task ahead. How could I, a defenceless creature with humble means, hope to protect this even more fragile being? Would the evils of this world not overpower us both before long?

  When I couldn’t endure the torture any longer, I sat up and stretched lazily. Despite not having had much sleep, I felt fresh and energetic, ready for another day’s march. But it was still dark outside, so we wouldn’t be able to leave yet.

  It was then that I looked over to find a young boy sleeping beside me. He must have been about four years old, and he was sleeping in the blanket I had wrapped the infant in last night. I nudged him awake. He sat up and yawned, before slowly looking up at me. His expression was one of mild confusion. His eyes were startling, for they looked remarkably like the eyes of the infant. Was he perhaps the baby’s older brother?

  “Who are you?” I asked, more brusquely than I had intended to, for he recoiled. “I won’t hurt you,” I assured him, in a softer tone. “Just answer me.”

  He nodded, clearly frightened by my manner, but still said nothing.

  “What happened to the baby?” I asked.

  “What baby?” he replied, in a small voice.

  “The one that was asleep by my side last night—he was sleeping in this blanket that you have around you now,” I told him, gripping a corner of it as if to support my claim.

  “I don’t know,” he said, with a small shrug. “You put this blanket around me.”

  “Don’t lie,” I warned him, sternly. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “You saved me last night,” he said, softly. “You brought me here, gave me milk and put me to sleep. You put this blanket around me; don’t you remember?”

  I gaped at him, dumbfounded. “But… you were a baby last night,” I said, trying to understand the absurdity of his claim. “How could you have aged years overnight? You were a tiny baby, practically a new-born.” I shook my head, “How long was I asleep?”

  “I’m hungry,” he said, feeling his bare stomach. “Do you have any food?”

  I was prepared to ignore his discomfort and press him further for answers, but his desperate hunger showed in his expressive face, and I didn’t have the heart to let him starve. Since he was older than the new-born child, I deemed my rations suitable for his consumption. I fed him the last of my provisions, and questioned him softly while he ate.

  He did not seem to understand my perplexity, and insisted that he hadn’t changed at all since the night before. But how could a new-born child age four years overnight and not even remember it? Or, if I am to believe his claim, then how could I have mistaken a small boy for a new-born child last night? It was a maddening conundrum…

  I concluded that he was tricking me. But then I wondered what he would gain by such a lie? Perhaps he was lost, had found me asleep in this cave and rather than steal my food, had pretended to be in my care so that I would feed and protect him. But then where was the new-born child? Had he destroyed the infant to complete his plan? And then of course, there was the resemblance between them that was hard to explain. How could he look so convincingly like an older version of the infant? So then I considered if perhaps his claims were true. Was he indeed the same child I had dug out of the snow? But no, that idea seemed far too absurd…

  He slept some more after he ate and this gave me an opportunity to ponder my thoughts. I watched the day break in the distance, beyond the long arm of the mountains. Dawn came silently. I was aware of how still the world seemed, as though all life had been vanquished from it. Yet I knew I wasn’t alone, for the wolves still lurked within these hills. There was an ugly look to the skies this morning. I stood at the mouth of the cave, hugging myself for warmth. I found no comfort in the scenery around me, not even in the sheer cloth of snow draped over the land, for its white hue seemed now not so much pure, as it did pale with disease. The reddish tinge of the mountain seemed to me like streaks of blood on a violent hand; its silver peak like the threatening tip of a murderous blade, and the murky sky like an ugly veil cast over a doomed land. This landscape was cheerless, its very spirit drowned in some kind of evil.

  I went back into the warmth of the cave. He was sleeping innocently, like an angel. I felt the same pang of affection towards him that I had felt for the new-born child last night. I was compelled with a desire to save him from the perils of this land. But I knew that to accomplish such a feat, I would need fortune to fast become my most loyal servant.

  I roused him an hour later, and we left the cave.

  He was naked but for the blanket, yet seemed unaffected by the cold, and filled my ears with ceaseless questions as I carried him on my back. He asked me to explain everything he saw, from the snow to the sky it fell from. He was certainly curious, and rather well-spoken for his age. The depth of his intellect and his eagerness to learn more impressed me greatly, though the incessant questioning didn’t. I
was growing increasingly weary of answering him. Besides, I had enough questions of my own that I wanted to ask him.

  As we marched further, his questions grew more complex; he began asking me about the world, about life, death, and the Universe as a whole. He saw and noticed things that I hadn’t; his perspective, so childlike in its naiveté, was also rich with imagination. I never once felt that I was talking to a boy of four or five. It felt instead like I was in conversation with an old man, wiser and more thoughtful than I had ever been. For many hours I marched, until exhaustion crept upon me rather suddenly. I had been fine just a moment ago, but I could no longer tolerate his weight with any degree of comfort. I was forced to stop in the middle of an open dale.

  “We shouldn’t rest here—we’re exposed,” he remarked, his voice hoarse with the cold. “It would be better if we tried to reach those hills before nightfall.”

  I shook my head. “I’m too tired, and besides, it’s already twilight.”

  When I lowered him from my back, I was startled to find that he was no longer a boy of four, but a young man, old enough to shave. I realised now why the last few steps had felt suddenly difficult. “How did you age so quickly?” I demanded, astounded.

  Again, this adolescent standing before me looked just like the boy I had seen in the cave this morning, and the infant I had saved last night. All three of them had the same features, the same complexion, expressions, and apparently the same story.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he shrugged, disinterestedly. “But you had better light a fire before the winds pick up. The temperature falls suddenly at night.”